


Spoonful of Sugar

by zara2148



Category: Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, John is struggling with a lot of his issues, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:48:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28537605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zara2148/pseuds/zara2148
Summary: John makes a mess in the Wayne Manor kitchen. Alfred helps him clean up, and reassures him about his place with them.
Relationships: John Doe & Alfred Pennyworth, John Doe/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 15
Kudos: 54





	Spoonful of Sugar

**Author's Note:**

> So here's the other work that was long overdue for posting. I actually wrote the bulk of this in the gap between episodes 4 and 5, finishing days before The Same Stitch dropped. Then after it dropped, I started making mild edits to make it more canon-compliant with the Alfred stays ending. Then it just... moldered in handwritten notes and half-finished Google docs form until I FINALLY finished it now.
> 
> You can also think of this as a loose sequel to Maybe the Word to Focus on isn't Normal.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no –” 

This was supposed to be PERFECT, but everything was burning and there was a beeping that just. Wouldn’t. Stop. Message received, everything was on fire and not fine. It. Could. Shut. Up. Now. 

“John, is everything all right in here – oh my.” Alfred had entered the kitchen to find it filling up with black smoke.

“Ah ha ha ha, Alfredi.” His smile was stretched so wide it strained his cheeks. But if his smile was dazzling enough, maybe his beamish charms would distract from everything else. “How are things?”

The butler was not fooled. It was the damned beeping that gave him away, wasn’t it? 

But Alfred didn’t shout or storm off. Instead, he came over, waving away some smoke with one hand while the other gave him a pat on the shoulder. It was still weird to have people that weren’t Bruce touch him kindly, but there was a warmth that lingered and spread throughout him as Alfred moved his hand away. 

“Let’s get this cleaned up, shall we? And then we continue our chat about things, if you wish.” 

With a flick of a switch by the stove, discreet fans were turned on that carried the smoke away. A few seconds later and the beeping finally stopped. Now he could concentrate on a thought for more than a few seconds. 

Shame all he could think about was how hot his face felt, as if too much heat had transferred to him from his scorching surroundings. And he hadn’t even stuck his head in the oven, like he’d thought about doing when everything had gone wrong. 

He could still do that, actually. The heat might burn up some unwanted things in his head. 

But ugh, being caught by Bruce would have been bad enough. But at least Bruce was well acquainted with this side of him. And, well, he loved Bruce, but the man couldn’t do much more in the kitchen than make a cold-cut sandwich. He’d have been SYMPATHETIC to their similar patheticness (heh). 

Getting caught by Alfred, though? Who was practically perfect in every way and likely DID just touch down from the sky one day via umbrella to look after little Bruce? And in the man’s own kitchen, too, as if he was a rude interloper in his territory. 

And there was A Talk coming. Alfred had called it a chat, but really it was A Talk. Those were never FUN. 

He hummed a few bars from “A Spoonful of Sugar” while his hands and feet followed Alfred’s on autopilot. Better that they do their own thinking for now anyway. It left him free to step out of his mind and away from his surroundings. 

_In every job that must be_ _done /_ _there is an element of fun. / You find the fun and_ _SNAP_ _!_ _/_ _The job's a game._

Ah, sweet dissociation. 

They cleared away the pans of eggs, bacon, toast, sausage, and pancakes that were SUPPOSED to look like bats, but had decided to instead grow up to be fanged hourglasses. Alfred switched off all the burners on the stove. The food, burnt beyond edibility, was scraped in the trash. The pans were scrubbed, dried and put away. 

The fruit he had chopped and the oranges he’d peeled were still salvageable. Alfred placed them in bowls covered with plastic wrap and slipped them into the fridge. Then the cutting board and knives were washed as well, the stove and counter wiped down. Everything cleaned up in a few minutes. 

And now there were no tasks standing between him and A Talk. 

But Alfred then brought out an electric kettle and filled it with water. “I’m making tea for myself. Would you like some as well, or would you care for something else?” 

Cocoa with added chocolate syrup and mini marshmallows, stuffed in until the mug was in danger of cracking up like an audience slayed by good comedy. 

“Tea’s fine.” He’d been enough of a bother. 

Alfred nodded, and soon enough there were two steaming mugs on the table. The butler waited for him to sit down before taking the opposite seat. 

The steam curled upward, tickling his nose. His fingers didn’t quite grasp the mug, dancing a few millimeters around it instead, afraid of the heat transfer that might flush his face again. 

A bowl of sugar was set between them. “Would you care for some?” Alfred asked. 

“Oh, yes. Please.” 

Alfred scooped out a spoonful just before he reached out for the bowl. He tilted and dumped half of the sugar inside into his mug. His tea turned cloudy. 

He set the bowl back down between them. Alfred’s eyebrow had a slight twitch to it, but there was also a hint of a curl at the edges of his lips as he stirred the spoonful he had into his own tea. 

His fingers finally grasped his mug, moving it in a circles to spoonlessly stir its contents. 

“Y’know, there’s a lot of kitchen stuff you can do with just a mug,” he said, watching his tea swirl and settle. 

“Is that so?” 

“Yup, just a mug and a microwave.” He set his mug back down, hands moving away from its heat. Already, he felt the telltale tingle that meant a blood rush and a face flushed. “I’m good at that. At being creative with just the bare minimum.” A finger tap against the table. “Sometimes less.” 

“I imagine the reverse must take some getting used to.” 

The kitchen certainly gleamed with a brightness he’d yet to see matched elsewhere. A brightness that seemed to painfully illuminate the cracks within him. 

But Alfred’s eyes were warm as they looked at him, into him, without being so painfully bright. With a steady hand, the butler raised his mug to his lips. His own fingers squashed their indecisiveness and clenched around his mug, raising it to his lips in an attempted mirroring of Alfred’s movements. He couldn’t be rude and not drink his tea, now could he? 

He was a bit too fast, too frantic, and some drops of tea sloshed over his fingers. He swallowed only a quick sip of bittersweetness before he set his mug down with a slight clatter, while Alfred’s had a quiet grace to it. 

Alfred cleared his throat, the opening play of A Talk. “So that seems to have been quite a lot of breakfast. Were you feeling extremely peckish?” 

His hands fluttered away from the mug to float just in front of his collarbone, shifting and squeezing against each other in a battle for dominance. Dexterous versus sinisterness. 

“Ah, well,” his words hesitated before heedlessly rushing forward into possible danger, like chasing criminals down an alley. “It was for Bruce and me. I was going to bring him breakfast in bed.” 

“I see. Any special reason or occasion?” 

His hands stilled. “Does there have to be?” Was this the sort of thing you could only do on bank holidays, Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day?! Because that last one might be awkward for Bruce for at least a couple of reasons, but if it was one of the few days of the year he could do this… 

“No,” Alfred said, rerouting that train of thought. “I had just wondered, is all.” 

His hands broke apart as his thoughts tried to coalesce. He reached for the mug and took a longer sip. The scalding heat was bracing, and might burn some unwanted things out of him. Or catalyze some dearly wanted things. 

“I mean, if you’re just asking why now, why today…” He placed the mug down more softly this time, letting his thoughts fall into line (no cutting!). His hands rested on the table, palms down. 

“I woke up before Bruce this morning. Must have tired him out last night.” A snicker, his fingers curling against the table as he fought down the bubbling in his chest that threatened to become nervous laughter. 

Alfred’s brows furrowed, and that helped to cool the bubbling. He took a few deep breaths before continuing. 

“He was breathing so softly, so sweetly in his sleep, and I was just aware of this emptiness… no, this resonance in my chest where my heart once was.” His scarred right hand moved up to his chest, trying to hold back the love swelling up inside of him. Without a heart to hold it back, would it pour out of him in a gush and escape? “Because it’s not there anymore, it’s with Bruce now, always. Not stolen, but given to him.” 

“And, it’s just, he’s given me _so much_. His advice, his support, his friendship… his love.” The last was whispered with the softness of a prayer in church. Saying it any louder might shatter the truth of it, like breaking silence by speaking of it. So much of silence was wrapped up in Bruce’s love. 

Alfred was silent as well, hands folded, his tea going untouched. 

“I have a home now, with him. Because of him. And… it’s just not a fair trade, none of it.” He brought his left palm down upon the table for emphasis. “I wanted to do something for him, for all that he’s given me.” 

It was a thought that, once intruded, would not leave him until it was acted upon. And then everything had to be done at once, because his love could not wait to be expressed, his debts could not wait to be repaid. Plus, Bruce could be up at any minute with those sleep habits of his, changing little even with the space in his life to take things slower. If it were to be done, then it would be well for it to be done quickly. 

Alfred silently reached for his hand, still resting flat on the table. There was that unfamiliar warmth again, an oh-so-slight pressure against the back of his left hand. His train of thought derailed, wheels spinning and sparks igniting as abstractions went flying. 

It made his hand real, grounded it in this moment. But the rest of him wasn’t real enough, was on the edge of flying apart. Every breath fractured him. It was too much, too much, all too much. 

He pulled away. But a tingling lingered, his skin holding onto to something that wasn’t a kept distance or a brutal grip. Or Bruce’s touch. Which sometimes fell into one or both categories, awkward as Bruce still could be with him. The grip at least he never minded; he’d rather be held too tightly than ever let go. 

“I just wanted to do something for him,” he said again (and oh, how he hated to repeat a bit). “I know he has you for this kind of thing, but I still – ” 

He cut himself off, jerking the needle off his broken record. So many needles had been in his life, would he ever escape them? 

A smile broke his face, cracked it open like an egg and allowed some chuckles to escape him. “Heh, heh, heh. And instead, I nearly burn down stately Wayne Manor.” The chuckles deepened. “But I suppose it wouldn’t have been the first time that happened.” The laughter rushed out of him like a flood, the sound slightly runny from suppressed tears. 

With the laughter came a peek of the person he’d been that night at Ace Chemicals, the version of himself he tried to free out on Gotham’s darkened rooftops, before slowly backing up into an ungiving wall. 

The person inside of him, who will never ever leave. If Alfred were to take a peeler knife to him right now, what would he find underneath all the skin and muscles and sinews? 

His hands, so difficult to recognize as a part of him right now, drifting away in stillness from his giggle-wracked body, lunged for his mug. He swigged the rest of his tea down. The sugar’s sweetness didn’t try to hide the tea’s bitterness, but instead strove to meld with it, complement it, hold hands with as they balanced each other out. 

He swallowed the rest of his laughter down with his drink. It petered out into weak, almost hiccup-y snickers before dying entirely. 

“I’m sorry,” he managed to say in an even tone. “That was inappropriate of me.” 

Alfred’s hand reclaimed his mug. “Not at all. You’ve been speaking of some things that must have been weighing upon you for some time. Being overwhelmed is natural.” He took another sip. “As for accidently burning down our home... I was there when Wayne Manor went up in flames. I can assure you, you were nowhere near close to causing the damage that did.” 

John shoved down the part of him disappointed by that fact. It was not helpful now. 

“Still, I must seem like such a screw-up. Hmph, almost wonder what Bruce sees in me.” His grin flickered then sharpened, gaining a cutting edge like one of his old Joker-aangs. 

“I imagine he must see much the same as what I do. And shall I tell you what I see?” 

John shrugged. “I don’t think I can say anything to stop you.” 

“A ‘no’ would suffice if you truly don’t want to hear it. But I think it may help.” 

“Well, then, I’m all ears.” John emphasized the sentiment by bringing his hands up behind his ears, flapping the lobes. 

“Indeed. Very well, then.” Alfred’s hands closed around his mug without raising it, simply savoring the lingering warmth. “I see a young man who had every conceivable obstacle thrown his way. I see a man who changed his life for the sake of someone he cares deeply about, who gives that person unwavering support. And I see a man for whom some things may never be easy, but who keeps trying nonetheless.” 

John could only croak out a simple “Ah,” unable to sort out the tangle of words clogging his throat. And though he knew Alfred, like Bruce, was made of pure Teflon, the smile Alfred shot him was all gentleness. Then, Alfred raised his mug to finish his tea. 

He quickly moved to mirror Alfred by raising his own mug. Only once he brought it to his face did he remember he had already finished his tea. 

_Wrong. Dumb. Stupid._

No, no he wasn’t. He placed the mug carefully back down. 

Alfred was still smiling at him as he held out a hand. “May I?” 

He handed his mug over. Alfred took it, but was shaking his head at the same time. “No, I’m sorry. I should have been more clear. May I...” and he inclined his head toward a pale hand as he set the mug down. 

John couldn’t hold back a flush. “Oh, sorry.” That was rude of him, to just assume. His green eyes met Alfred’s, and his hand seemed to move without conscious thought, independent of his body. It came to rest in Alfred’s palm, who gently covered it with his other one. 

“You’ve been good for him.” The truth shone in Alfred’s eyes as he spoke. Then, his smile turned teasing. “And the manor’s been far livelier with you around. You have a place here, with us.” 

His face was hot again. Darn heat transfer, though it wasn’t so overwhelming this time. When he finally moved his hand away, Alfred picked up the mugs and carried them to the sink. 

He gave a polite cough, hoping to release some of the excess heat or at least distract from how red his face must look. “What can I say? I hate being bored, and I would so hate it if I was boring.” 

Alfred didn’t look up as he rinsed the mugs. “Just keep Master Bruce from being... ah, boring. He overworks himself so much.” 

“Bruce? Boring? Never. But yes, he does do that.” 

The sound of water in the sink stopped. 

“But I think you’re distracting from yourself with talk of Bruce,” John told Alfred. Dr. Leland had certainly told him that more than once, but he couldn’t help himself. And it only made sense that Alfred would have the same habit — Bruce was the kind of guy that was hard to stop talking about! 

“And oh boy, did you ever get me to talk,” He mused aloud. “Not that I won’t do that at the drop of a dime, but still... you’re good.” He paused, watching as Alfred left the mugs to dry. “Was there something in the tea?” 

“No, but it may interest you to know I did my share of interrogations in the S.A.S.” 

Britain’s special forces. John sat up straighter. “Any terrorists?” 

“A few.” 

“That. Is. So. Cool! You _have_ to tell me how you got them to crack.” 

“Certainly. What say I do so while we try making breakfast again?” 

* * *

John was forming bat silhouettes with the pancake batter on the stove when Bruce finally walked into the kitchen. He couldn’t hold back a screech of, “No, don’t! You’ll spoil the surprise!” 

Alfred had concurred. “Yes, do go back to bed, Master Bruce. We’ll be bringing breakfast up shortly.” 

“... all right then,” Bruce agreed as he blinked in bemusement. But there was a slight smile on his face as he walked out of the kitchen. 

**Author's Note:**

> I also drew a little bit upon my own mental issues at the time when writing this. I'm in a much better place now, fortunately, but yeah. There was some mild projecting onto John here.
> 
> Also, yes. John is CONVINCED that Alfred is some sort of Mary Poppins creature. Can you blame him?


End file.
